Reputations
by Eleanor Pepperland
Summary: Even in ten years' time, some people don't change. They still believe that what people think of them is more important than what they actually are. Take Draco Malfoy, for example.
1. Smiling is for the Untrained

**TITLE: Reputations  
AUTHOR: Eleanor Pepperland  
RATING: T [for language and some themes]  
PAIRING: Draco Malfoy/Original Character  
SUMMARY: Even in ten years' time, some people don't change. They still believe that what people think of them is more important than what they actually are. Take Draco Malfoy, for example; twenty-seven, living in a posh Belgravia apartment, deeply committed to his life's work. He doesn't have **_**time **_**for serious relationships, only casual flings with women he meets from his job. As rumours swirl that Malfoy Industries is in danger of being bought out, he hosts a dinner at his almost palatial abode to let everyone know that all is well. Little does he know that the destruction of his pride and joy comes to his party neatly wrapped up in a disarming little black dress.  
WARNING: mentions of adult themes and use of profane language  
DISCLAIMER: The **_**Harry Potter **_**series, its corresponding films, characters, places, concepts, etc., are property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers Pictures. **

* * *

The business column didn't have anything bad to say about him that day. With a sigh, he flipped the pages, moving to the society and entertainment section. Ah, there he was in the society page, smiling (or rather, smirking, to the untrained eye) gleefully up at the reader. The accompanying article stated how the company grew when he took over the reins, and how it was so hard to catch wind of any news on his personal life. Draco smirked, mirroring the moving image of himself. There was a knock on the door—three precise raps in quick succession, the trademark of his executive assistant, Lisa. He had taken note of how she did so before.

"Enter," he said from behind the broadsheet, audible enough for Lisa to hear. She was a tall twenty-five-year-old with a head full of russet red hair, a dusting of freckles across her high-bridged nose. Pretty enough in his book, but she was his assistant. The idea repulsed him, dating someone who was subservient to him. Lisa was engaged, anyway. "Excuse me, Mister Malfoy," she spoke up. He folded the _Prophet _up and put it down on his desk. "What is it, Lisa?" he asked, not unkindly. "Sir, Clarence Weatherly from _Witches and Riches _would like to schedule an appointment with you," Lisa informed him, reading from a page in her day planner, which he had issued all the employees that worked with him directly. "Did he say what the appointment was for?" he leaned back slightly in his chair. "He didn't, sir, but considering what _Witches and Riches _churns out on a monthly basis, I don't think it's for an informative article and a becoming portrait," it also happened to be in Lisa's job description to give him as much information as possible before he made a final and ultimate decision.

_Ah yes,_ he recalled, the memory of stumbling upon an issue of the periodical that had been forgotten by one of his secretaries in the office, _permitted female releases of perversion. _"Tell him never in a million years, I'm a Malfoy, not a stripper." The corners of Lisa's mouth twitched upward at the comment, but fell back down as soon as she read from her planner again, "Yes, sir, I'll owl him right away. Also, Mary Bell-Gilmore from Oversight and Compliance told some members of the press that you were gay, shall I send them an owl carrying your official statement?" his nose wrinkled at the mention of the rumour, "Tell the chief competition of the tabloid who broke the story that I am certainly _not _gay, I'm married to my work. Send Miss Bell-Gilmore's superior a note containing the message that I request her immediate removal, will you, and release an ad to the _Prophet_'s classified section that we have an opening for the position of junior business associate." Lisa nodded, "Consider it done, sir. About the dinner to be hosted this Friday evening, will there be an apéterif or a cocktail to be served before the entree?" she moved on to something less disappointing to think about. "An apéterif, yes, and contact Mister Zabini about the fine Vermouth and Pernod he keeps on talking about."

"Should I also ask about some accompanying anisette for after supper cocktails, along with the usual staples of wine, brandy, and scotch?" asked Lisa as she scribbled something in her planner with a ballpoint pen. It may have been a Muggle invention, but the traditional quill and inkwell wasted too much valuable time. "Yes, Lisa, you should. I expect you to be present as well, you're integral to the entire event. Please, feel free to bring your fiancé. I'm looking forward to meeting him. That will be all, thank you," he said, finality in his tone. The redheaded secretary nodded and shut the door quietly, just as he had told her to do every time she left his office. He looked in his own day planner, checking for any previous engagements. Much to his surprise, his next meeting was not for the morning. He closed it and slid it into his briefcase. There was no reason not to leave, it seemed, and this saddened him slightly. He loved his work so much that he hated going home without anything related to it to do—so a free evening for himself presented a sort of challenge on how to spend it.

Thankfully, the answer conveniently burst through the door, held back by the hulking security wizard.

"I told her you were busy, sir," explained the wizard in a booming voice, "But she wouldn't listen to me." He stood up and told the man, "It's quite all right, Bruce. I do advise you to let her in next time, she's an old friend." Bruce gave her a wary look before releasing her forearm and soundlessly deserting the scene. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were keeping me out," grinned his sudden and unexpected guest, "but I know you far too well for my theory to even be remotely plausible." He chuckled, "It's good to see you as well, Claudia." His guest was one of his friends from childhood, if _friend _was the right term for another scion of two separate and equally important pureblood families that his mother had sent him off to 'play dates' with. Her name was Claudia Brightfeld, and she was still the definition of the word for him, even when he was at Hogwarts and she was being schooled at Beauxbatons, he owled her regularly. When the war had ruined their comfortably predictable lives, he sought comfort in her words, so much like his very own.

Claudia hadn't changed from the first time they'd met: her eyes were still colossal, still that greenish-blue hue, her hair still long and dark. What _had _changed with age was her form, now willowy and sinuous from the inevitable stage of puberty. Her dark brown hair fell to her waist in a mantle of relaxed waves, he knew, but she had braided it and pulled it further back into a bun to keep it away from her face; proud forehead, colossal greenish-blue eyes, ski-slope nose, adequately high cheekbones, and light pink mouth, all set in a creamy complexion. Her voice was still comforting in its softness, making whoever it was she was speaking to lean closer in effort to hear her. Whatever exterior of feminine fragility that Claudia had been granted by inheritance she made up for in her intense fanaticism for fledgling Wizarding bands and musicians, being one herself. In the daylight hours and rare nightly ones she modelled to take advantage of her looks before she 'expired,' only doing so to pay the bills and not touch the grand fund that had been left to her by her deceased parents. Nonetheless, whenever Draco thought he needed advice or a pick-me-up, Claudia would find her way to him, without knowing previously that he needed her. In her words, 'I've got great timing in that aspect, Drake.'

"Can I come to your dinner this Friday? I haven't gone to one of your charming little crushes in ages," she sat down in the pod-like chair in front of his desk. He leaned on the edge of the oak table where he did most of the activities that energised him and quirked a brow at the brunet, "Are you asking to come because of me or the six music producers that I've invited?" Claudia looked sheepish when she admitted, "OK, so maybe it's for the producers. Please, Draco, let me get them to hear the band I'm in play. I'm not even asking much." He suggested, "What if you're my musical guest who stays after the performance for wine and cigarettes?"

"Ah, perfect," grinned Claudia, "you really are good at what you do, aren't you?" he smirked, "You underestimate me gravely, Claudia. Of course I am."


	2. Riches Are for Spending

**CHAPTER TITLE: Riches Are for Spending  
WARNING: none, for this chapter  
DISCLAIMER: The **_**Harry Potter **_**series, its corresponding films, characters, places, concepts, etc., are property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers Pictures.  
SONG/S USED OR TO READ WITH: **_**Dream a Little Dream, **_**the version by She & Him. **

* * *

_Riches are for spending, and spending for honour and good actions; therefore extraordinary expense must be limited by the worth of the occasion. __—__Francis Bacon_

"You have a lovely home, Draco. Tell me, who is the interior designer behind this beautiful space?" trilled Susan Merrell, the obsequious journalist from _Habitable Art. _"All of this is a brainchild of one of my schoolmates, Susan, by the name of Daphne Greengrass. She and her sister Astoria collaborated for this project," he gestured to the general area of his apartment with the hand that held a glass of Cynar from his personal stores. _London Living _had published an article about his apartment before, calling it 'homage to the old world gentleman's club, with the refreshing welcome twist of a modern colour palette.' He couldn't blame them: the hearth burned eternal, housed in a white marble fireplace. His couches and armchairs were varying shades of grey, his kitchen countertops gleaming black granite. Tables were of the darkest cherry wood, as if cut from stone. The Greengrass sisters had not forgotten about his past, of course; above the fireplace hung a portrait of a snake against an emerald velvet background, subtle accents of his favourite colour all over the place.

Susan wasn't the only member of the press present at the dinner party, it seemed—when he glanced around the room, almost all the guests had the look of overzealous curiosity on their faces particular to nearly every journalist he'd ever encountered. If he were to be honest, only he, the six music producers, Claudia, Lisa, and Lisa's fiancé were the only exceptions. Supper was exceptional, prepared by two Parisian house-elves who had previously been serving a chef in a particularly high-class French establishment. As he promised his guests, there would be after-dinner entertainment provided by one of his dearest friends. Of course the assembled reporters were all ears—he hardly mentioned his personal life, so the fact that he had more than one dear friend surprised and amused most of them. As soon as she had requested to attend and possibly play, he had the two house-elves build a platform for Claudia and whoever she was bringing along to perform upon, the white wooden makeshift stage modestly erected near the fireplace. She was predictably pleased.

"For tonight's entertainment," he said, his voice carrying all the way to the front door thanks to the silence that fell upon the room, "We shall all be granted the wondrous and rare occurrence of a live performance by a musician, before they are too famous to perform in apartments for friends. Tonight I present to you, fortunate guests, Claudia Brightfeld and her companions." Soft applause welcomed the three-woman group. Claudia had probably cast a charm to make her voice louder, because under regular circumstances, nobody would have heard her over the whispers in the crowd. "That was an unwarranted introduction, Draco," she drawled, unfazed by the fact that she was surrounded by people who would pick apart her comment and use it against her in the next day's papers, "but thank you. In any event, this trio is officially called The Hurricanes."

They were a peculiar trio to play in an apartment that looked like his, he realised. Claudia carried nothing, perhaps as to not spoil the effect of the cocktail dress and high heels she wore (he had told her to do so), her hair all curled and styled away from her face. One of her band mates, a petite woman whose ginger hair was in a cut that Muggles called a bob (clashing terribly with the slouchy tangerine turtleneck she had on with khaki cigarette trousers and rust-coloured penny loafers) had a guitar slung over one shoulder. The house-elves appeared to firmly plant three bar stools on the platform, disappearing with a faint _pop_, and the ginger-haired woman gave the audience a briefly horrified look, as if someone had urinated on the seat of humanity and justice. Claudia's other band mate, a tanned woman with wavy black hair wild around her face, carried a single drum (and a black leather jacket over one baseball shirt-covered shoulder—he didn't know whether to be slightly intimidated or highly amused). Yes, indeed, they were a rather peculiar-looking bunch of women.

"Usually we play rock songs in very grimy locations," Claudia informed the crowd, settling down on the bar stool in the middle, crossing her legs in a ladylike manner. The audience chuckled. "Seeing as we have a very welcome change in location, we're going to play something a little slower. Lena, if you will," she waved her hand, and the ginger-haired woman began to strum her instrument. "_Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper 'I love you,' birds singing in the sycamore tree—dream a little dream of me_," as soon as her voice (which, he noted, happened to be ridiculous in how high and small it seemed) was heard, his guests began to sway. Some went so far as to invite someone to a dance. With a sigh inaudible to even the most eager ears, Draco resigned to one of the corners and sipped at his Cynar. There was no point in shifting awkwardly from foot to foot because nobody had struck him as the appropriate partner to a waltz. Besides, he didn't shift awkwardly from foot to foot. He couldn't recall when he'd done something remotely similar.

He was perfectly fine drinking his bitter liqueur by himself when all of a sudden a girlish voice on his right asked, "Isn't this your party?" he looked over and was momentarily caught off guard by the bluest eyes he'd seen in his entire lifetime. Her brownish-blond hair shone even in the low lighting. She wasn't too tall, comfortably petite. He was rather adept at reading people, and he knew right when he saw her that she was consistent and stable, but not uninteresting. "Yes, and it's also my house, but I think you've gathered that," he shrugged, taking a sip again. "Then you should be enjoying it, not watching from a corner with a drink in your hand like some pervert," she said plainly, as if she was so important to him. "Who are you, again?" he asked, mildly taken aback by her bluntness. "I'm Layla, Layla Grace," she extended a hand, her fingernails painted electric blue.

"Nice meeting you, Miss Grace. I'm Draco Malfoy," he shook the outstretched hand for the sake of courtesy. "I gathered that," Layla smiled—it was crooked, her smile, but it seemed to add to her charm; to Draco, anyway, it seemed so. He felt like Layla Grace was fun, something he hadn't experienced in a long while. Claudia appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, to speak with him. She too had been raised with the rigid rules of etiquette ingrained into her consciousness, so rather than dragging him away, she interjected in a genteel manner, "I'm sorry, am I interrupting you? I only need to speak with Draco here for a few minutes." Layla shook her head, "Oh, no, we're quite done talking. Your band is very good, by the way. Excuse me, Mister Malfoy." She left before he could respond, before he could ask if she was free, before they could talk for real.

So, to find out more about her without actually having to find her, he talked to the next best thing. "Have you heard of anyone named Layla Grace?" asked Draco. "I told you, Draco, if you're going to go into a gentleman's club, you can't count on me to remember the name of the wonderful bird you spent the night with, I'm not allowed in there," Claudia cracked, motioning for them to move to the balcony. They did, unable to speak to each other properly while making their way there because of the number of people who might hear them. "I'm serious, Claudia," he leaned on the railing of his balcony. "Oh, well, in that case, no. Layla Grace, you say? If I were you, I wouldn't trust a woman with a name like that," shrugged the brunette, who produced a slim cigarette and lit up. Draco narrowed his eyes at his friend, "Why shouldn't I do that, Claude?"

"I just wouldn't, Drake. My instincts are usually right with this sort of thing," she responded, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the open air. He didn't want to believe her, but it was hard not to.

**-:-|-:-**

Layla Grace woke up the Monday morning of the following week at seven. Her body usually cooperated when she told herself she'd wake up at a certain hour. Like any other day, it began with her brushing the sand out of her eyes. When that was done, she'd brush the tangles out of her not quite blond, not quite brown shoulder-dusting hair. After that she would shower. She'd dry off, she'd dress for work, and Apparate to the office. The headquarters for _The Borough Reporter_ were underground, like the Ministry, but their methods for entry weren't nearly as flashy or interesting as the latter. All they had to do was disappear into a certain alley, if they didn't Apparate or Floo there. Emily, the editor-in-chief, recommended against the alley method. Apparently Muggles enjoyed victimising unsuspecting Wizards by stealing from them and beating them to a pulp.

"Hey, Layla," said Maggie Stewart in a low voice when she arrived in the miniscule box of an office that they shared, "Gates wants you in her office." She felt herself swallowing nervously. It was about last Friday night's assignment, no doubt. Layla straightened out the white oxford shirt she'd chosen to wear that day with black cigarette trousers and pumps before she deposited her tote into the chair, walking out of her place to work and resolutely making her way to her boss' office. Some interns in the fashion department gave her a scandalised look as she brushed past, but there was no point in looking at them when they didn't really matter.

If offices were boxes, Gates' was a cargo container and hers was a matchbox. The amount of room in Miss Gates' office reminded her of how _tiny _the office she shared with Maggie was. "Go ahead and sit, Miss Grace," Emily Gates was a tall forty-something woman with straw-coloured hair and always had the sternest look in her eyes who had once been a top-ranking journalist at _The_ _Daily Prophet_, then abruptly quit her job and started _The Borough Reporter. _Barnabas Cuffe was apparently disappointed when she left, or so the story went. "I want an update on the story we started on Draco Malfoy and Malfoy Industries," Miss Gates said, opening to a specific page in her journal. "Based on my research, Malfoy Industries has been around for thirty years; back when Lucius Malfoy started it, Malfoy Industries was primarily a manufacturer of supplies and fine clothing. During the War, it shut down temporarily on account of that Lucius was a Death Eater and those were busy times. After the War, the Malfoys fled England and temporarily settled down in Geneva. Lucius and Narcissa remained, while they sent Draco back to England with a document stating he now had full control of the company. Since then, Malfoy Industries has grown to be one of the leading retailers of luxury items, ranging from imported food and drink to designer clothing. According to my contacts within the staff, he strives for excellence in every field and if anyone gets in the way of that, he doesn't hesitate to eliminate them."

"Very thorough research, Miss Grace, well done," Miss Gates nodded, her Quick-Quotes Quill scratching across the surface of the page. "What about Malfoy's personal life?" she cringed inwardly. She hadn't done much research on _that_, she felt like she was prying. "He isn't seeing anyone right now," she managed to respond, reporting only what she'd gathered from the moment's correspondence. "What else?" asked her employer anxiously. "Well, er, that's it," she admitted. "Layla," Miss Gates leaned over her desk slightly, using her first name, "if you're going to do a complete inquisition into a person and his occupation, you have to know and understand _all _aspects of their life." _OK, will I really tell her how I feel about where this assignment is leading? _"Miss Gates, if I may," she cleared her throat to get rid of at least a little nervous tension, "I just don't want to pry into his personal life. I think that's why it's called his personal life, Miss Gates, it's not meant to be written about and broadcasted." For a moment Miss Gates' gaze softened, "I understand that you feel this way, Layla, but people don't want to know about steely Draco Malfoy, Chief Executive Officer of Malfoy Industries. They want to know about charming Draco Malfoy, who is a wizard before anything. The public wants to know that the man who gives them all access to the finer things in life is human, that he too is capable of emotion. I need you to get tangled up in his crosshairs, Layla, because he is clever. He hides what we wish to see."

Something in how Miss Gates said it made her want to believe in what she was saying. "What will I have to do to get tangled in his crosshairs?" she asked instead. Miss Gates cracked a smile, "Interest him. Have him go out with you. Get to know him, his family, and his friends." _I'm not all for this, but I don't want to get fired, either, so I'll just do what she says. _"I won't tell him what I'm really getting to know him for, am I?" the blonde woman nodded, "Good of you to gather that. I recommend you keep a journal—find a Quick-Quotes Quill and a notebook, then after every meeting pour out what happened and how you feel to the air. Are we clear, Miss Grace?" it was her turn to agree, "Crystal, Miss Gates. Interdepartmental memos will be sent to your office as soon as we have a major development." The blonde nodded, "I'll expect them. You are dismissed."

She got up from the chair, opened the door, and made her way back to her matchbox office at the other end of the hall. Maggie was talking to the miniscule window, her quill moving across the page with each word that came out of her mouth. They were in the business and finance department, so more often than not they interviewed aged CEOs and got friendly with secretaries; they didn't go on writing about twenty-something tycoons and they certainly didn't_ go out with them_. Layla sat down morosely at her desk, only a few inches larger than a schoolgirl's table, and found her Quick-Quotes Quill. She hadn't used it in a while, honestly. She preferred writing everything by hand, feeling the quill between her fingers. "What did Gates want?" asked Maggie once the quill had been retired to her desk drawer. Maggie Stewart was a petite, olive-skinned, black-haired woman; her almond-shaped eyes were the colour of chocolate, her nose a pert button, her mouth small and rosy. She'd gone to a Wizarding school in Liverpool, tiny by comparison to Layla's native Hogwarts.

"An update for the Malfoy story she asked me to do," she replied, "she wants me to 'get tangled up in his crosshairs,' for it." Maggie raised one well-groomed brow, "What did she mean by that?" she let out a blast of air. _It is the inevitable. _"She wants me to interest him so he'll ask me out." At this her friend and co-worker laughed, "I don't mean to discourage you, but Malfoy is so uptight you'd think had more than his wand in a knot, if you know what I mean." She rolled her eyes, "It's not funny, Maggie. Besides, he wasn't like that when we were at school." Maggie displayed her enviable talent and quirked her other brow, "You were schoolmates?" she nodded, "Yeah, we were even in the same house. He was a big deal then—all the girls liked him, wanted to shag him, or already did." Her friend's conclusion was the very accurate, "So he was a playboy, you mean?"

Layla shrugged, "I guess, if that's what you call boys who shag and skedaddle." Maggie giggled at her use of words, "Shag and skedaddle. I like that. So, how do you plan to 'interest,' this Draco Malfoy?" _there lies the problem, or haven't you gathered that, Maggie? _"I have no idea, Mag. I mean, I haven't liked anybody enough to work for them to like me since... Wow, since I was fifteen!" her friend palmed her face, "Oh, Merlin." At this she was puzzled, "What do you mean, 'oh, Merlin'?" Maggie sighed, "At the rate you're going, making someone gain interest in you is going to be harder than you think it is." She added, "I think it already is hard!"

"Then I wish you the best of luck, Layla."


	3. A Woman's Curiosity

**CHAPTER TITLE: A Woman's Curiosity  
WARNING: use of profane speech  
DISCLAIMER: The **_**Harry Potter **_**series, its corresponding films, characters, places, concepts, etc., are property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers Pictures.  
SONG/S USED TO READ WITH: **_**My Mistakes Were Made for You **_**by The Last Shadow Puppets  
NOTES: This chapter is being told in limited third-person PoV; it's Claudia Brightfeld-centric [I do hope you still remember her...]**

* * *

_You know what a woman's curiosity is. Almost as great as a man's! __—__Oscar Wilde_

Most people said her job was easy. In truth, it sort of was; she went to a venue for a shoot or a show, got made up, posed or walked, collected a check at the end of the day, and went home. It helped, most of the time, that she wasn't a shabby-looking girl. But she was twenty-seven; her expiry date was coming closer and closer, then some beauty on the onset of puberty from some tiny soviet bloc country with a funny name would take her place. Sometimes, when she was being unrealistic, she thought that perhaps one of the designers would call her his muse and use her in every show while she still looked good enough to pass for twenty. Those moments would pass quickly, and she would remind herself again that she was getting old. She couldn't do the band thing forever, of course—even rock bands had expiry dates. Other times she wished she had a steady job, like Draco; he could be eighty and wrinkled, but as long as he was alive, he'd be OK. When she wasn't worrying about her occupational status, she rather enjoyed her job. People fussed over her, and she liked that; from an early age she knew she was an attention whore, just like Draco. She tried on pretty clothes and got her picture taken. Particularly friendly designers would chat her up and let her have some pieces she modelled for the show or the shoot, or a pair of shoes that they thought looked good on her. Her favourite part, however, was how fast she could get information. The London Wizarding fashion community wasn't the largest, but it wasn't the smallest, either, so she could ask about a certain model booker or a magazine editor and be talking with them about how she could work with them moments later over a nice strong cup of coffee.

Case in point was her agenda for that day: she would be walking in an evening show for Eméraude, and the designer, Pansy Parkinson, wanted the run through and backstage photographs and interviews to be done in the day, as not to add to the chaos to presumably ensue that evening. She hardly knew the designer, but the name was familiar to her from somewhere, so she assumed she had walked for Eméraude before. The label wasn't haute couture, but it was known well enough for the important editors to report excitement for the new line. She left her apartment, stashed her wand away in a pocket of her tote, and Apparated to the venue, an abandoned hotel from the twenties. It was a miracle that it hadn't been torn down (probably because the Parkinson family had purchased it somewhere in the nineties). The grand ballroom was apparently were the show would be held, and true enough, the dark green-carpeted three-foot-high runway was already being cleaned by some black T-shirted assistants. She tapped one on the shoulder to ask, "Where are the models?"

"In the back," said the assistant, not looking up from the carpet, "if you're one of them, the show runner, Millicent, is at the entrance through the silver curtains." Another assistant pointed to the shimmering fabric a few paces behind them. "Thank you," she told them both, moving toward them and passing through. A tall, sturdily-built woman with a ponytail at her neck was by the opening indeed, stopping her mid-step and telling her flatly, "If you're not a model or a makeup artist, you can't get through, missy." _Did you just call me Missy? Do I look like a 'missy' to you? _"My name is actually Claudia Brightfeld and I came here for the run through that Miss Parkinson ordered?" the woman narrowed her eyes at her, but before she could respond, another woman, with black hair in cut bluntly to her chin, chastised the taller woman, "_Millicent_! Don't harass the models! Hello, Claudia, Sergio and his team are waiting for you at station five, let me take you there." _Ah, so you must be Pansy Parkinson. _She regarded her current employer with an indifferent stare.

Pansy Parkinson gave off the air of a designer, with her hair like that, earrings that looked like she'd cut them from a chandelier hanging down from her earlobes. "You must forgive Millicent," Pansy told her, linking an arm through hers and all but dragging her to a dressing table where a hairdresser began to brush the knots out of the waist-length mantle that most people called her hair. "She's not very fond of day shows and run-throughs. Sergio, I was thinking we take all her hair and pull it into a loose rope braid, and then Meaghan can do her thing. Oh, I'm being rude. Hello, Claudia, I'm Pansy, Pansy Parkinson." She was vaguely taken aback by the designer's face, which boasted a nose that had probably been recently charmed to have a bridge (giving her the look of someone who smelled something perpetually foul), rather thick lips made even larger and thicker by a generous coat of red lipstick. Mascara weighed down Pansy's eyelashes. "Claudia Brightfeld," she managed to say as the hairdresser Pansy called Sergio ran his fingers through her hair and began to twist the bulk of it. "Oh, I know who you are, you're Draco's charming little Beauxbatons friend," tittered Pansy, "he and I were in the same year and house at Hogwarts together. He even took me to that flop of a Yule Ball."

Claudia was suddenly aware why the name seemed so familiar—Pansy Parkinson was the name of the girl that Draco was talking about in his letters. She was the clingy, irritating girl whom he'd taken up with once or twice that had it in her mind that she was his girlfriend. He described her so horribly; well-endowed in the bosom department, whiny in terms of vocal octave, a face that seemed like she had slammed into a wall as a child and her face's elasticity could not handle getting back to normal, and bratty in terms of overall temperament. _Well, the only thing that didn't change, I think_, Claudia observed as Pansy went on and on about how Draco was already handsome at school, _was the bosom. _Yes, there it was, glaringly obvious, even if she swathed her generous bounty in a black shawl. She could see why her best friend would take up with her; she was dumb to a certain degree, she had big tits, and the extent of her talent was her ability to throw together and sew her own clothes. "Really, he never told me anything about that," she chose to interject as Sergio was replaced by a woman who told her to look up as soon as she arrived. "Mm, yes—he's very private like that. I think he still is, to this day. What a small world, Draco's best friend models the final dress in my collection!"

"Yes, what a small world indeed," she mumbled, the woman slathering on nude gloss preventing her from proper speech. "I haven't seen Draco in years; did you invite him to the show?" asked Pansy, leaning forward, causing her to lean back slightly for fear of being crushed by the terrifying bosom. _Regrettably, Draco goes to all my shows. _"He's attending tonight, yes," she responded, mentally writing his excuse not to meet Pansy backstage. "Well, tell him he absolutely _must _come and meet me after the show, we must catch up!" Pansy laughed, and it _was _rather whiny. "I'll tell him that," she couldn't meet the designer's gaze when she said this, seeing as the makeup artist had told her to look up so she could put mascara on her lower lashes and line her bottom lid. "Good, good," Pansy said, "I think that'll do for makeup, Meaghan, can you send over Nick?"

She reclined in her chair as Pansy continued speaking, nearly drowning out her voice with a song that she was mentally composing. "Hello, Claudia," said a voice. It belonged to a man, his hair brown like mahogany, his eyes bluer than the sky, "I'm Nick, now, don't move, because it appears that you're the first model I've shot backstage that hasn't even seen me and already got into a photogenic position." It nearly made her smile. When he spoke, his cadence was unsure, like he could be speaking smoothly like velvet one moment and exploding with things to say at the next. The shutter snapped, "OK, look to Pansy, please?" her eyes fell upon the designer, who smiled at her. _Oh, I think I'm nauseous. _"That's really quite lovely, Claudia. Er, Miss Parkinson? Could I borrow her for a moment?" Nick put down his camera and turned to the brunette for permission.

"Of course you can borrow her, Nicholas! Do go ahead and take a picture of her near the exit, I want something particularly quirky before the final run through," Pansy responded, practically pushing her out of her seat and ushering her toward the photographer. "If you'll follow me, please," Nick said, ambling over to the nondescript steel door towards the back of the room. She realised then that he was tall, much taller than Draco, anyway, and therefore one of the few wizards she did not tower over. "So, erm, I was thinking you try and look like you're sneaking off," he suggested, hidden behind his camera. "This is a moving photo, isn't it?" she asked. "Well, yes, but it can't just be a dynamic shot of you leaving the building. I dunno, I guess you can grant a wink or something like at the end?" he put down the device for a second and ran a finger through his hair.

Claudia nodded, traipsing around in her platforms. "OK, go," Nick said, giving her the signal to start moving. She did what he'd said—she crept slowly toward the door, and as she put a hand on the door's handle, she flashed a coy smirk to the camera lens. The flash signalled that the shot was over, so she could finally relax. "That was a good photo," he remarked, "I can develop it right now, actually, and send it to my sister to distribute to the important people." This piqued her interest. "Why, is your sister a journalist?" Nick nodded, "She actually writes for _The Borough Reporter_'s business and finance section, but I think the fashion and lifestyle column would appreciate the exclusive." _Ah, how charming. _"What's your sister's name? I have a friend, I think he's been interviewed by every reporter in Europe, so he might have heard of her already."

"Layla," Nick replied, "her name is Layla Grace." _Oh, so he has heard of her. _This surprised her, but she had long since been trained not to show how she truly felt through her facial expressions, of which she had many. "So that makes you Nick Grace?" she asked, curiously and neutrally, like how she spoke to her agent. "Yes, that would make me Nick Grace," he said, adjusting something on his camera. Wordlessly he snapped a photograph. "Will I be moving in that one?" she would make as much conversation with the timid photographer as necessary if it meant she'd find out everything there was to know about Draco's latest infatuation. "Er, no, it's a Muggle camera. You'll be clear as day, but you won't move," Nick responded, watching her closely. Claudia rather liked being watched closely—it was another characteristic of her textbook narcissism. It happened to be the drive for her self-effacing brand of flirtation that Draco did not particularly enjoy. He thought it was too complicated. Like any normal heterosexual male, he wanted things done simply and quickly.

So she chose to use the charming and demure approach to gaining information through a relationship: "I bet you have a thousand pictures of your wife." Nick coloured. "Er, I don't have a wife." She grinned and spoke to him like he was joking, "Of course you do! A good-looking chap such as yourself wouldn't be left without one, a million girls would love to wear a ring if you'd put it on her finger!" he shook his head, suddenly unable to meet her gaze, "No, there isn't anyone. There hasn't been in a while." _You poor man, you sound like the only one you'd wanted had died. _"Why not?" she asked. "I'm preoccupied by my work. Besides, no decent witch would marry me if she knew what I did everyday; four- to eight-hour shoots with beautiful women all over the globe. The jealousy would drive her mad. I wouldn't last a year with her," he explained in a low voice.

"Well, at least you have a sister," she told him, "I haven't got a brother or anyone; I'm more or less alone." Nick looked up. "You're an only child?" Claudia shook her head, "No, I had a brother. He died in the War." He nodded understandingly, "Yeah, I lost a lot of good friends in the War. But at least they fought for what semblance of peace we have now, right?" she tensed, "My brother died in the War because he was fighting on the wrong side. He thought they'd win." He looked away again, "I'm sorry about that." She swallowed. "No, it's not your fault. He chose unwisely. He had to pay the price. He could've just gone away with me, but no, he stayed with our parents while they fought what they really needed. Look, I shouldn't have burdened you with my histrionic rambling. I should go, Pansy will need me for the run through. Good luck with it all, Nick."

She turned and walked away, sure and steady in her gait even if most women would be teetering in the seven-inch stilts required of her. "Claudia!" she turned at the mention of her name, the braid bouncing down her back. It was Nick. His strides were long enough to catch up with her. "I shouldn't have asked. I didn't know," he said, shifting uneasily in place. "It's OK. You weren't supposed to know, anyway. It was my fault for even mentioning it," she shrugged. "No, I should've just left it alone. Listen, we could go on and on with this, putting the blame on each other, but can I at least make up for what I did?" he met her eyes again. They really were blue, like her deceased mother's favourite jewels. "What do you have in mind?" she asked. "Would you like to go for a drink later after the show? There's a place I go for this sort of thing, it's really nice," he replied.

"OK, sure, after the show. I think Pansy needs you now," she nodded toward the buxom brunette who was gesturing frantically in his direction. "Er, yeah. I suppose I should leave. See you later," he waved goodbye and started off in Pansy's direction. Millicent the show runner told her to start walking out on the runway, they were trying out the line-up. She did so, sauntering down the strip. Some of the other photographers snapped an experimental picture as she turned around. "Marvin Harris from _Gabardine _wants you, Brightfeld," the show runner addressed her gruffly, practically tossing her in the general direction of the chaotic jumble of models, makeup artists, stylists, hairdressers, and associates of the business. "I'd rather not be manhandled, actually," she said curtly, brushing invisible lint off her arms. "I know what girls of your sort are like, Brightfeld," Millicent narrowed her beady eyes at Claudia, causing the latter to raise a brow at the woman. "You're nothing but shallow buggers who only have their looks to bank on and nothing else; useless, really."

Claudia gave the show runner a once-over. "No, not really; I finished top of my class at Beauxbatons, I have a degree in Magical History from the University of Wizarding Studies Heidelberg, and I've never had to touch a Knut of my inheritance, which is probably infinitely more than your salary and family fortune combined. I assure you that I do indeed have a use, but you fail to comprehend it. If you'll excuse me, I have an interview, as you said." Millicent's expression softened for a second to say in a rather awestruck tone of voice, "You sound just like him." This made her curious. "Who do I sound like?" the show runner seemed to lose all the prior animosity she had displayed towards Claudia and replied, "Someone I used to go to school with. He was in the same house—like a class, I suppose—as I was. He and I were never close, but that was how he spoke; it was like he was better than you, that he was right. He always was, too. There would be a brief listing of fact and then he'd shove it in your face that you were lucky enough to be sharing his air. I don't know where he is now, but I reckon Draco Malfoy still talks like that." She knew who Millicent was talking about—in fact, it was not the first time she had been compared to him in terms of cadence. "He's a businessman, and I suppose he does, with his underlings, but he doesn't do that with me," Claudia responded. "So you're the new girlfriend?" Millicent regarded her warily again. "I'm the best friend, and he doesn't have a girlfriend. He's married to his job."

Millicent was about to say something, but a man with a white stripe towards the front of his tousled black hairdo came up to her and said, "Marvin Harris, _Gabardine_, pleasure to meet you, Claudia—oh, am I interrupting something?" she looked from Millicent to Marvin and back again. "No, sorry to keep her away, Harris," the show runner shook her head in response, "it was nice talking with you, Claudia. The show will be great." Marvin grinned, "Thanks, Millicent. Shall we, Claudia?" she nodded at the mention of her name, "Yes, let's. See you, Millicent." She nearly stepped on Marvin's foot as he wheeled her to a corner of the backstage area that wasn't hounded by people and sat her down on a sturdy wooden box as he drew up another box for him to sit on. "So, Claudia Brightfeld," began the strangely-haired reporter, "what can you say about Eméraude?"

"To be honest I haven't got much knowledge about the past collections, but this one is really quite lovely," she replied neutrally. "What do you think of the clothes you're going to be wearing in the show?" the quill that had been motionless only seconds ago began to scratch away at the pad of parchment as soon as she started talking. "I like the way it's cut, the dresses don't make me look funny. I like the material, too, because it's comfortable and doesn't chafe. Anyway, the designs are really avant-garde but wearable. I think a lot of women would love to wear items from Eméraude's fall/winter collection," she concluded. "That's wonderful, Claudia, now how would you describe your sense of style?" asked Marvin, the quill relentlessly inscribing her words into the parchment. "I don't know how to describe it exactly, though off-duty I like wearing separates, but sometimes it gets a tad bit tedious to pick which pieces go with each other, so I wear dresses on those days. When I feel like my legs are getting too masculine-looking, like, too much muscle, I wear Chelsea boots or other flat shoes, then when I feel like I need height, my lowest heel is four inches," she crossed her ankles, shifting her weight so nothing would lose feeling. "But you're tall already!" exclaimed Marvin Harris brightly. She took this as a joke and managed to smile, "Eh, sometimes I feel like I want to go higher. I dunno, it's just one of my things." Marvin grinned back, "It's been a pleasant chat, but I think they need you. Thanks for that!"

The music began to pulse outside, and she looked towards the dimming lights. The show was about to begin.


End file.
